Page 47

We'd worked so deep into the night that P.M. had passed into A.M. hours prior.
I figured Dante would have given up, would have left by the time I made it back to my trailer.
I figured wrong.  He was there and awake.  And hell, he was even sober.
Our eyes clashed for a few intense beats before I moved to the small bedroom in back, changing into street clothes. 
"We talking here or at your place?" I asked him as I came back out, grabbing my things.  "Or my place?" I added.
"Mine," he answered instantly, rising from the sofa. 
"What have you been doing in here for all this time?  Meditating?"
He gave me a small smile for that.  "I kept busy.  Sobered up.  Went for a run, made some phone calls." 
I hadn't expected a semi-straight answer.  Usually he matched sarcasm with sarcasm.  "Who were you calling?"  I didn't really think he'd answer if it was anything besides business, but it never hurt to ask. 
"I was trying to figure out who's been talking to you." 
I rubbed my hands together, a nervous tell.  I made myself stop.  "And did you?" 
"No.  I couldn't get anything concrete, so I've put some people on it.  Unless, of course, you'd like to change your mind and tell me?" 
I shook my head dismissively.  "Not likely.  And it doesn't matter.  Truly.  You should be more worried about what I know than who told it to me."
His mouth twisted bitterly.  "Touché." 
That shut us both up for a while.  I left my car in the lot, going with him.
"How long is the drive?" I asked him.
"Not far," was all he said. 
I didn't press the issue.  I'd find out soon enough. 
And I did.  Sooner than I thought.  As though he'd found a place just to be close to the set, it was a scant ten-minute drive from the lot to his lodgings.
"You're staying at a house?" I asked him as he parked.  It was nice, not too huge, but heavily gated.  It didn't seem like the type of place you could stay for just a few nights.    
"Temporarily."
"If it's so temporary, why not just stay at a hotel?"
"I needed more privacy.  I require gates.  And tinted windows." 
I digested that, and thought, just maybe, that I understood it. 
He parked his car in the U-shaped drive, stopping just shy of the front door. 
"You have the place all to yourself?" I asked, looking around. 
"We do, yes.  Do you like it?" 
I shot him a look for that.  "It doesn't matter if I like it.  I just came here to talk.  And then leave." 
He firmed his jaw and nodded, looking away. 
He let us into the house silently, waving me in. 
I took a few steps into the entryway and stopped.  The place was bigger than I'd thought from the outside.  It was also fully furnished.  Well-decorated, too, with lots of grays and whites.  It felt more like a private residence than a short rental.   
"Do you mind if I shower before we talk?"
I shrugged.  "Whatever." 
"Make yourself at home.  The kitchen is stocked, if you're hungry." 
I realized that I was.  "Just point me in the right direction." 
He showed me to the kitchen and left. 
I had just dished out omelet number two when he joined me again. 
I sent him one glance, then looked away again.  He was in a fresh pair of sweatpants, these ones black, his muscular chest deliciously bare.  His hair was still wet.
I wanted to lick him, head to toe.  Twice.  Slowly.
Instead, I asked, "You run out of shirts?" 
"Yes.  Feel free to take yours off, too, to make it less awkward." 
I curved my lips down to keep them from curling up, which they'd naturally tried to do. 
He wasn't allowed to charm me right now.  The bastard. 
I handed him his plate.  I could have waited to ask if he was hungry, but I hadn't seen the point.  From what I recalled, he never turned down food.  Like ever. 
"Thank you," he said. 
We sat down at a round table in the breakfast nook.  It was a friendly spot, surrounded by windows.  If we were there when the sun rose in a few hours, we'd likely have a killer view. 
I ate my omelet without a word, not looking at him.  I had been collecting my thoughts for a while now, and I had too many questions. 
I didn't even know where to start.  And I was hesitant to.  If he started lying or evading, or so help me God, manipulating me again, this thing would be dead in the water. 
He finished his meal before I did, rising to take his plate to the sink then came back to sit across from me. 
I felt him staring at me while I ate, but I didn't look up.
I finished about half of my omelet before I pushed my plate toward him.  I'd prepared us both the same portion size, just kind of assuming he'd finish what I didn't.
Because he had a thousand times before.  Jesus, even eating together was like walking through a field of landmines. 
Put us together to do anything, and there was a memory behind it.  A dozen.  A hundred. 
We had words with whole lives attached to them. 
That was the burden of falling in love so young.  Of letting yourself go so deep into another person.  You owned too much of each other to ever really walk away.